


Retrograde

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 17:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: It wasn't exactly a surprise. When he was out of sorts, Richie turned to alcohol and blondes.





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only dark-ish fic I've written in this fandom, and somehow it's also my favorite one. Guess I'm weird. The timeline moves **backward,** so you have to pay attention :)

**1988**

**some Saturday morning**

 

Jon was staring at the ceiling, wondering when it would end, when one of them would make a move. Or really, when Richie would. Because his own body was frozen.

There was no way he could actually sleep there. But it was his bed, and if he got up, he was afraid of what would happen next. He would be the one trying to get away, and he didn't want to take that role again.

Richie turned onto his side, and his breath touched Jon's cheek. Without meaning to, he tilted his head away. Richie either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Jonny?" 

"Yeah."

"Does this mean we're even?"

Jon felt it again -- the stabbing pain in his belly, the bile rising into his throat. "Even?" he choked out.

"I mean … Are we gonna be OK?" 

Tears blurred Jon's vision, so he closed his eyes. He didn't need to see anyway.

Richie's fingertips slid across his forearm then dropped away. "I guess we can't be. Even, I mean."

Jon shook his head. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I knew what I was doing," Richie said simply. "Both times. It's not the same."

Jon sniffed and wiped furiously at his eyes. "You were trying to make us even? Are you crazy?"

"Yeah." Richie sounded dazed, maybe because they'd been awake for about twenty hours. "Fucked up, huh? I can't make it right."

Jon's gut was twisting now, and he had to shut his eyes against it. "Rich. You didn't do anything wrong."

There was a little half-laugh, half-sob. "I did _everything_ wrong."

"You didn't mean to," Jon growled, his tone a bizarre mismatch to the words. Because maybe he was saying it to himself, too.

And maybe he was sick of saying it. 

Richie laughed in that disquieting way again. "That's a good excuse. I didn't mean to."

"Christ." Jon flipped onto his side and flung his arm over Richie's chest, burying his head in the side of his neck. "Just shut up, OK? Just …"

For a few long moments, Richie didn't move a muscle. Then he inhaled slowly.

"OK."

 

**Saturday, 3 a.m.**

 

Richie had a hand clenched in his hair, not pulling or pushing, just there -- like he was poised to stop him but not quite willing. So Jon kept going, listening to him pant and softly moan -- sounding, sometimes, like he was in pain.

But that was just how it was hitting his ears, Jon told himself. There was little chance that pain signals were flooding Richie's brain right now.

Because Jon was working his mouth, alternating between teasing flicks and hard suction -- trusting that Richie would like what he liked himself. He had a forearm over his hips, to keep him from bucking up and choking him. And maybe, partly, to keep him there.

Gradually, Jon slid his other hand down to fondle Richie's balls. So many girls forgot, or didn't know, how amazing that could feel. They were so fucking cock-obsessed. But he knew what he was doing, and he wanted to push Richie over the edge like no chick ever had.

The grip on his hair loosened a bit as Richie seemed to be giving in to the free-fall, and Jon took a chance on gliding his fingers back farther, pressing against that delicate, unmapped place. Richie instantly flinched.

"Jon," he gasped, trying to wriggle away.

Jon brought his hand to Richie's hip in reassurance, humming softly around his shaft. He was just testing the waters, not really trying to go _there._

But he couldn't blame Richie for thinking so. He'd wasted no time on ceremony ever since they'd stumbled into his room. As soon as the door was locked, he'd pushed Richie toward the bed -- leaving no openings for words, or second-guessing, or even undressing.

He'd unfastened his own pants just enough to get some relief. Yanked on the few buttons of Richie's shirt that were actually done. Pushed those ridiculously tight leather pants down only as far as he needed to.

His mind was consumed by one thing -- showing Richie that he really wanted him. Proving he wasn't playing mind-games. He'd fucked up, but he could make it right, in this most obvious of ways.

And if he sensed that something was off, he told himself he was wrong. He wasn't drunk, but he wasn't sober, and that was bound to muddy his perceptions.

" _Ah_ … Jonny."

Richie's breathing was growing more erratic, and Jon pulled off -- not so much in response, but because his cock couldn't take it anymore. He crawled up Richie's body and began to move against him, recklessly groaning at the sensation of that searing-hot flesh on his.

A palm landed on the nape of his neck, and Jon let his head loll -- sucking along Richie's collarbone to the base of his throat, swallowing salt and smoke and alcohol. He wasn't sure if he was tasting Richie or the remnants of his own shitty week. Probably both -- but it didn't matter anyway.

He tangled his hands in Richie's hair, felt his pulse under his lips, soaked in his soft grunts and gasps. Told himself he was making everything OK. 

There were moments where his brain registered some stark truths. Like the fact that Richie's hands were on him, but not really holding him. That they were placed, instead of hungrily exploring, like last time.

But instead of dwelling on that reality, he chose to grind a little harder, replacing lucidity with primal pleasure. And if Richie's now-flagrant moans were drowning out the racket in his head, that was just a happy side effect.

As the pressure built in his core, Jon latched onto the sides of Richie's head and kissed him hard on the mouth -- like he could make one last emphatic point. What it was, exactly, he wasn't sure.

_I'm sorry?_

_Are we good?_

_I'm so fucked up, but I need you?_

In the end, he didn't say anything. He just pulled away and dropped his head to Richie's shoulder as he came. 

For a while after, he held fast, feeling that heartbeat under his, and how their breathing fell into synchrony. Eventually, though, he noticed Richie's hands were still clutching his biceps, unmoving. He wanted them to move, to drag up and down his back, fingertips digging into his flesh -- just like in his memories.

But he couldn't ask for it. That would be ridiculous. So he moved his lips to Richie's ear.

"Was it good?" he whispered before kissing his cheek.

It was weird, he thought fleetingly, how easily the plea for validation slipped out. Even though it was almost as pathetic as asking to be held.

A moment later, he was still waiting for an answer.

"Rich?"

The only response was a shaky exhale, and Jon started blinking rapidly, lashes brushing Richie's skin. He shifted and saw those dark eyes staring into space. 

"Hey," he said, mildly alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Richie pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. 

"Tell me," Jon prodded, pushing up to sit, hovering over him. "Did you … did you not like it?"

From his new view, he could see that Richie's eyes were black and shiny, but blank somehow. He automatically drew back.

"What?" he repeated. Because he needed Richie to say something -- anything -- to quash the realization that was tugging insistently on his insides.

Richie looked off to the side, parted his lips like he was going to speak, and then didn't. So Jon did.

"You wanted it, right?" He felt sick as the words came out, because he already knew the answer.

Richie just shook his head again. "You wanted it," he said. "So I let you."

Jon felt his stomach lurch, and he reflexively hunched forward. 

"Jesus Christ." It came out like a pitiable whine. 

Richie's hand settled onto his forearm.

"It's OK," he said. "You didn't do anything wrong."

 

**Saturday 1 a.m.**

 

It wasn't exactly a surprise. When he was out of sorts, Richie turned to alcohol and blondes. Which also happened to be his go-to when he was in a good frame of mind. He was as reliable as the sun in certain ways.

But only certain ways.

Jon took a swig from his beer. He didn't even pretend to listen to Al and Dave. Didn't even try to mask the fact that he was staring at the couple across the suite. He didn't have the energy anymore.

As he walked away he heard Dave say his name, but ignored it. He was too busy concentrating on the way Richie was leaning against the wall, curving forward a little, so he could be eye-to-eye with the blonde as she talked. Like he was so very interested in her _words._ Like he wanted to learn about her hopes and dreams.

Well … All evidence suggested her hopes and dreams included fucking a bona fide rock star. So Richie probably was interested in hearing her out.

"Hey," Jon chirped, sidling up next to them, eyes boring into the side of Richie's skull.

He noticed the jaw tension before Richie turned to look at him. A normal person wouldn't have caught it.

"Hey." Richie smiled tightly. "Jon, this is Sarah."

"Hi, Sarah," Jon said, never breaking eye contact with his friend.

He was sure the girl was smiling shyly, or blushing, or internally disintegrating as they all did. He didn't need to see it.

Anyway, he was preoccupied with the changes passing over Richie's face -- how his eyes had seemingly sobered up and clouded over in the space of seconds.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" 

Richie raised his eyebrows. "Now?"

"Yeah."

Jon turned to Sarah and flashed his thousand-watt smile. Sometimes he was disturbed by how readily he could access that one. Other times, he wielded it like a weapon.

"I'll give him right back," he assured the girl, adding a charming laugh when she smiled and looked down at her feet.

He grabbed Richie's arm and didn't look back as he pulled him through the suite and out into the hall. Once they got there, Richie shook him off.

"You don't need to drag me around like a dog."

Jon winced at the harsh words. He'd never treat his best friend like that.

He took a quick scan of their surroundings before resting his hand on Richie's arm again -- lightly -- urging him to move farther down the hallway. Once they'd turned a corner, he stopped in his tracks and leaned so far into Richie's personal space, he took a step back and hit the wall.

But Jon was undeterred. 

"Listen," he murmured. "I need to say I'm sorry -- for real."

Richie remained stony-faced, but his eyes softened a bit. Another tell, Jon thought, that only he would pick up. 

"I'm sorry," he repeated. 

Richie chewed on his lip before answering. "For what?"

_Jesus._

"You know." He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

"No. I don't."

Jon sighed and peered down the hall -- not at anything in particular. He just couldn't stand the way Richie was regarding him.

"It wasn't your fault," Jon said, focusing on some fake fern-looking thing by the elevator. "I mean, it wasn't _only_ your fault."

He dared to look at Richie. "It was just one of those things," he said, with a half-shrug and a sheepish smile -- another one he could bust out of the holster with alarming ease.

Richie finally reacted, with a disbelieving laugh. It wasn't what Jon wanted, but he'd take it over brooding silence.

"One of those things?" Richie echoed. "Are you nuts?"

Jon shrugged again. "Maybe," he admitted. "I'm feeling kinda crazy lately."

The honesty felt uncomfortable but oddly freeing. 

Richie frowned, ever so slightly, and it seemed like the armor might be cracking. "You … What do you mean?"

Jon leaned in, lowering his voice. "I've felt terrible since …"

Richie crossed his arms and looked down the hall, toward the fern. Jon watched his jaw tense then release, tense then release. 

"It wasn't your fault," he said again, in case his words hadn't landed the first time. "It was just all … fucked up."

Richie shook his head, refusing to make eye contact. Jon stepped forward, enough to feel the heat from his skin and breathe the pungent scent of alcohol -- just like the other night.

"Can we go to my room to talk?" He brought his hand to Richie's arm again, this time sweeping his fingertips up and down.

He smiled as Richie lifted his gaze, but it evaporated when he saw the pain etched on those features.

"You have to be kidding me." Richie's voice was soft but exuded anger.

Jon dropped his hand. "No. I …"

"You don't want me," Richie bit out. "You just don't want me to be with anyone else."

Jon felt his heartbeat accelerating, because that was a fucking lie. He grasped Richie's arm again, because he needed something to hold onto. 

"I do. I want you right now."

He held his breath as he watched Richie's face, and when he saw the skepticism there, he gripped his arm a little tighter.

"I'm not drunk."

Richie immediately looked down at his boots, and Jon mentally kicked himself for miscalculating. After a beat, though, Richie met his eyes and seemed to be gauging his honesty.

"You lied to Sarah," he said.

Jon exhaled a little laugh -- partly in surprise, partly relief. "I don't like her," he explained, and that much was true.

"But you like me," Richie said, in a strangely neutral tone that jarred Jon a little. But not enough to throw him off track.

"I like you," he confirmed. "If you don't believe me, I can show you."

Richie just kept looking at him, impassive, until Jon started to fidget. He was used to seeing his friend's emotions laid out on the table, so he always felt off-kilter in those rare instances when he couldn't read what was going on in that head.

By degrees, though, Richie's face relaxed and his gaze dipped to Jon's lips. "OK," he finally said, with a small smile.

At first, Jon just stared, unsure what to make of the attitude change. But he couldn't make himself question it.

Richie reached out to loosely intertwine their fingers. "You sure you're not too buzzed?"

Jon nodded and gave his hand a light squeeze. 

Richie looked down at their hands and froze, like he was entranced by the image. Jon furrowed his brow but said nothing. And he didn't let go.

"What if I am?" Richie asked, without looking up.

"Perfect," Jon said, then immediately cringed at the ill-considered joke.

Before Richie could respond, he quickly stepped in to kiss his jaw, right below his ear. "You're not -- I can tell," he said lowly. "C'mon."

Richie locked eyes with him before giving a slight nod. "OK."

 

**Friday, 11 a.m.**

 

"I am deeply offended by what you're doing to that omelet," Dave said, wagging his fork at Richie. 

It was the second morning in a row that Richie had sat there like a mope, mutilating his breakfast. The morning before that, he'd stayed in his room and avoided everyone the entire day. 

And Jon was sick of it, especially now that the guys were noticing.

"It's all the alcohol," he intoned helpfully. "Strips his gut and he can't eat."

Richie lifted his head, but since he was wearing shades Jon couldn't tell whether he was looking at him. He assumed not, because Richie had been actively dodging eye contact since the other night.

"Fuck off, Jon," he said wearily.

The other guys formed a chorus of Ooo's, and Jon rolled his eyes.

"I'm just kidding, man," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "We've all been drinkin' too much lately. Y'know?"

Richie clenched his jaw and his whole body seemed to go rigid, like he was ready to bolt. Or maybe lunge across the table for Jon's throat.

"Blasphemy," Alec declared, holding his sangria aloft.

Dave and Tico joined him in a toast, and Jon blew out a breath as the tension diffused and Richie went back to destroying his omelet. He waited until the guys were lost in reminiscence about last night's strip bar, then shifted forward in his chair.

"Hey," he cajoled. "Rich, c'mon."

Richie sighed heavily and looked up.

"I was just messing with you," Jon said. He knew the notion was stupid, but he was getting desperate for some kind of normalcy. 

Richie remained stock-still. "You think that's a good idea?" 

Jon darted his eyes around the table before leaning farther forward. "You won't talk to me except to fight, so …"

Richie laughed derisively. "Oh, right. I forgot it's all on me."

Jon was about to _shush_ him, but Richie abruptly pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. 

"I'm goin' back to my room," he muttered before stalking away.

Someone called after him, probably Dave. Jon knew better than to bother.

 

**Friday, 3 a.m.**

 

It was a bad idea, just showing up at Richie's door. There was almost no chance he was alone in there. He never was, except for the nights he chose to be with Jon instead -- just drinking, smoking weed, shooting the shit. 

That was how it used to be, anyway.

It was a bad idea, but Jon couldn't sleep, and he couldn't take the distance of the past couple days anymore. Mostly, he couldn't take the crushing sense that he'd made the worst mistake of his life, and that maybe it couldn't be undone.

To his surprise, Richie answered the door after the second knock. He was wearing sweats and a ratty Zeppelin t-shirt, which meant there was no girl in his bed.

"Hey," Jon said, like this was normal as hell.

Richie stared sullenly, and Jon noticed his eyes were bloodshot. He couldn't smell any pot, and it occurred to him that Richie probably hadn't slept much lately, either.

"What's wrong?" Richie finally asked.

"Um." Jon scratched at an eyebrow. "Nothing."

Inside, he cringed at the idiotic response. Everything was fucking wrong.

"I mean," he amended, "I just wanna talk for a minute."

Richie made no move to let him in. "It's late."

"I know," Jon said, struggling for an even tone. "I just … Can I come in?"

Richie looked down and worked his jaw.

Jon waited, and when no response came he ducked his head and tried to catch Richie's eye. "We hafta talk, man. Just for a minute."

Richie shook his head. "I don't know how to talk to you now."

Jon felt his stomach plunge, and for a few uneasy seconds he just stood there gaping -- shocked at how hard the simple words hit him.

"Rich."

Richie looked at him from under that messy fringe of hair. "Why do you even wanna talk to me?" he asked, sounding somewhere between bewildered and angry.

He stepped back, and Jon was sure he was going to shut him out. So he spoke in a rush.

"I don't know why I did it. I just freaked out."

Richie immediately looked away. "I can't …"

He started to close the door, so Jon threw out his hand to stop it. "I swear I didn't mean for it to be like that …"

He wasn't even sure what he meant, and from the look on Richie's face, he didn't get it, either. And that hurt like hell, because Jon counted on him to always understand.

"It was my fault," Richie said, a little catch in his voice. "You were right."

Jon shook his head, like it made a difference. "No. I wasn't." He tried to step inside the doorway. "Just let me come in. For a minute."

"No," Richie said emphatically. "I don't know what you're playin' at, man, but you need to go."

Jon's chest ached, but he forged on. "I'm not playing," he protested. "You know we need to talk. This isn't right."

He flinched a little when Richie growled in frustration. "I _can't._ Go away, Jonny."

Without another word, he shut the door. Jon wasn't sure how long he stood there, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do. But it felt like forever.

 

**Thursday, 9 a.m.**

 

Jon blinked at the clock on the nightstand. It would be time to leave soon, and he'd barely slept. That, he could deal with. He could get by for a long time without sleep or food or the other things most people needed. Stamina was his gift.

But he didn't know if he could get on a bus with Richie. A confined space where they'd be forced to look at each other and hear each others' voices. Where Jon would inevitably, repeatedly think about what happened. 

He'd spent the whole day yesterday replaying it in his mind -- the parts he could remember, anyway. Each time, he'd tried to rewrite something, make himself come out better. And he'd done it so many times now, that truth and fiction were getting jumbled in his head. 

But one truth was clear. He was terrified of wanting Richie the way he did. It wasn't just that it was abnormal -- He didn't feel that way about _guys,_ for Christ's sake -- it was that he couldn't bury it anymore.

Now he knew, beyond a doubt, that Richie wanted him, too. And what the fuck were they supposed to do with that?

Or, at least, Richie had wanted him up till the other night. Before it all fell apart. Before Jon had torn it all apart.

He hadn't meant to. He'd just had a little too much to drink. He'd just lost his mind a little. He'd just been scared to death of the consequences of crossing that line.

And now he had to figure out how to get on a bus with Richie. And then how to live with him. Or not.

The _not_ option triggered an actual physical pain in his gut. That was good, he supposed. He knew what he _didn't_ want. And that was a start.

 

**Wednesday, early**

 

Jon knew he wasn't alone even before he'd fully opened his eyes. He could feel the weight and heat and life of the body next to him. He could sense the movement of breath, the change in the air when another human was holding the same space as you.

He knew more than that, too. He knew it was wrong, and if he opened his eyes and saw what he knew, there was no going back. For an instant, he considered slipping away and pretending it never happened. It seemed like it was actually workable -- or more workable than facing what was in front of him.

There was a shift in the bed, and Jon retracted into himself, squeezing his eyes shut, like that would make him invisible. The movement quickly passed into stillness again, except for a soft, familiar sigh. And that sound, so small but tangible, caught him dead-center in reality. Physically running away was impossible.

Jon gingerly rolled onto his back and turned his head, feeling his heart rate accelerate when he saw exactly what he'd feared. The messy dark hair, the curve of a bare, tattooed shoulder visible above the sheet. The slow rise and fall of a body that was comfortably at rest, blissfully unaware.

_Oh, fuck._

Jon tried to control his breathing. He didn't want to wake Richie, didn't want him to roll over, couldn't deal with seeing his face.

_What the fuck did we do? Fuck._

Jon shut his eyes again, trying to recall -- but at the same time not really wanting to.

All he could conjure was a tangle of disjointed moments. The more he focused, though, the more distinct the images. He saw flashes of skin, felt the muscle memory of Richie's body on his, remembered the taste of his tongue. He could sense Richie's hands -- larger, rougher but more agile than any girl's -- roaming his body, cupping his ass, drawing him in. 

Felt his hot mouth exactly where he needed it most.

_Jesus Christ._

Jon's heart was thumping so hard into his chest wall, it was a wonder Richie couldn't hear it. He pursed his lips and exhaled slowly.

The things he'd done were foggier somehow. But he did recall, in the way a dream comes back, brazenly licking a path from Richie's navel to his throat. He remembered that the skin was smooth and salty-sweet and fucking delicious, and that he'd known it was wrong even as he'd done it. 

_Christ._

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face and tried again to calm his breathing. But in the midst of all the flashes, one glaring fact began to gnaw at him.

Why could he only remember bits and pieces?

Why couldn't he remember more? Like how it started. How they ended up here. Why was he seeing flashes instead of a whole picture?

He realized he'd had a lot to drink -- the throbbing pain behind his eyes was evidence enough. And if he hadn't been drinking, he never would've had the nerve to do this …

Never.

Just like that, anger flared from the pit of his belly.

_Fucking hell._

Of course. He'd been too fucking wasted to stop himself -- to see that this was insane. He would never have done it otherwise. And Richie must have fucking well known that.

"Fuck." 

Richie stirred at the sound, but gave no other sign of consciousness. And it just added fuel to Jon's fury.

"Rich," he said, his voice so gravely it sounded foreign to his ears. "Wake up."

He reached out to shake his shoulder, feeling a weird flutter in his belly at even the simple contact.

"C'mon. Wake up."

Slowly, Richie turned onto his back and blinked his eyes open. When he finally focused on Jon's face, he smiled softly, like everything was fine. And all at once, Jon felt a vise squeezing his chest.

"What the fuck did we do?" he choked out.

Richie's face fell instantly. "What?" 

"What did we do?" Jon demanded, feeling increasingly panicky as Richie's eyes widened in obvious disbelief.

"You … You don't remember?" Richie's voice was almost a whisper, and Jon had never seen him look like that. Fearful was the only word for it.

Jon pushed to sit upright. "But _you_ remember," he said, more an accusation than anything. "What the fuck did you do?"

Richie sat up then, scooting toward the far edge of the bed as he did. "I didn't do anything," he defended, before clearly realizing that was impossible. 

"I mean," he back-pedaled, "I didn't … It wasn't just _me._ You -- you wanted to."

Jon had another flash. Of himself, trapping Richie against the hallway wall, pressing his body against him.

_No, no, no._

He shifted onto his shins, wanting a height advantage because it made him feel more secure. 

"No," he insisted. "I don't even remember what happened. I was too fucking drunk. And you had to fucking know it."

Richie's face paled and he truly looked like he might vomit. "That's not … We were both drinking."

"But you knew what you were doing," Jon argued, his face burning with anger now.

Richie shook his head vehemently. "Jonny, I swear I didn't --" His bottom lip trembled, just a little, and he bit down to stop it. "You said you wanted to."

Jon shut his eyes tightly. He didn't remember saying anything like that. He couldn't have, because he'd never been that brave with Richie -- no matter how drunk he was. And somehow, he was suddenly confident he knew what he couldn't remember.

"You wanted to," he said flatly. "And I guess I let you."

Richie said nothing to counter his words. He just took them in, staring ahead like he was trying to put the pieces together. Eventually he brought a hand up to his eyes.

"Oh, god."

Jon's stomach churned and he cast his eyes down. As upset as he was, he couldn't stand seeing Richie like that.

"Rich," he said, his strident voice replaced by something much shakier. "Go away. Please."

Richie dropped his hand and blinked a couple times, like he was coming out of a haze. "Jonny --"

"Just go," Jon cut him off, sinking onto his heels. "Or I will. Whatever. I can't …"

_Fuck. What did we do?_

Richie pressed his lips into a tight line and gave a little nod before pushing to his feet.

Jon sat still as a statue, watching him hurriedly collect his clothes -- putting on the bare minimum to get to his room without causing a scene. When he finally walked out, he left a heavy silence behind.

A while later, as he sat there alone, Jon had another flash.

He was sprawled on top of Richie, interlacing their fingers and pressing their palms together. He was leaning down for a kiss, but with his drunken aim, he caught only the corner of his mouth. He felt the curve of Richie's smile on his cheek, and then his lips, and then the gentle squeeze of his hands.

 

**Wednesday, 2 a.m.**

 

"You're staring again," Alec said.

Jon tossed back the rest of his whiskey, keeping his eyes on the other side of the room. "She's hot."

Alec nodded solemnly. "Yep, and he's already on her. Why fight over a chick when there are so very many to choose from?"

Jon smiled ruefully. "True. I'm not gonna fight him, Al. I'm gonna congratulate him."

Alec gave him an odd look. "You OK? You seem, y'know, unsteady or something."

Jon nodded, like it was answer enough, and started toward his target. He had no idea what he was doing, but some mix of alcohol and jealousy and testosterone and impatience was driving him. And for once, he decided to let feeling rule over thinking.

Because why the fuck not?

"Hey, Rich," he drawled, clapping his friend on the shoulder and grinning at the blonde-du-jour. "Can I talk to you real quick?"

Richie looked at him incredulously. 

Jon wrapped his arm around Richie's shoulders, bringing his lips so close to his ear his breath rustled the hair there. "Real quick. It's important."

He pulled back a bit and smiled, leaving Richie to look back and forth between him and the blonde -- like he didn't want to piss off either one of them. Ultimately, though, Jon won. Like he knew he would.

He brought his hand to Richie's arm, ushering him ahead toward the door. But before they got there, Richie stopped and turned around so their faces were inches apart. Jon could smell the vodka pouring off of him.

"What's this about, Jonny?" Richie's gaze was unfocused, but Jon thought he detected a knowing gleam.

He jutted his chin toward the door. "Keep goin'. I'll tell you when we're alone."

Richie just smiled in that sly way he had, and it went straight to Jon's groin. "No. Tell me now."

Jon bit his lip, considering. What the hell? Everyone around them was wasted, and no one would remember a thing in the morning anyway.

He leaned in dangerously close, brushing his lips against Richie's ear this time. "I want you."

When he stepped away, Richie face was unchanged -- like he wasn't surprised in the least -- but there was a new spark of heat in his eyes. And somehow Jon had known this was how it would go, just like he'd known that girl never stood a chance.

Maybe that was why he'd never made a move like this before. 

Richie nodded, his smile growing. "OK."

END


End file.
